we are the reckless we are the wild youth
by whitelilly0989
Summary: "Fate bends, it's not her name. The house that will shut the boards and the windows tonight to enclose their grief will not be hers." AU. Prim doesn't get reaped. Katniss/Peeta.
1. 001

**Fandom:**_ The Hunger Games_

**Characters:**_ Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark, Madge Undersee, Gale Hawthorne, Haymitch Abernathy._

**Pairings:**_ Katniss&Peeta._

**Setting****_:_**_ AU within the THG book-verse. _

**Author's Note:**_ this story was inspired by a prompt on promptsinpanem's AU week - day 7 (it consisted of making an AU by changing an event within the verse). I ended up choosing the prompt "Prim doesn't get reaped". This is my AU. Make yourself comfortable, and hopefully the writing is good!_

_Ps. my tumblr is peetaspearlx in case any of you wants to stop by_

* * *

**we are the reckless; we are the wild youth**

**001.**

She stands in the crowd, looks at the Justice Hall, and focuses on Effie Trinket's pink hair with balled fists; sends a prayer into the sky.

_Not me, Not me, Not me,_ she repeats in her head as a mantra, her pulse beats to the syllables as well, trying to bend fate like the willows that surrender at the shore of the lake.

Effie opens the slip of paper, she sees the glint of her purple nails and she narrows her eyes. _Not me, Not me, Not me, Not me._

Fate bends, it's not her name. The house that will shut the boards and the windows tonight to enclose their grief will not be hers.

She watches as Madge Undersee's pristine white shoes climb up the steps, a testament to the fact that not even the strong ones can withstand the fall. Her throat constricts; she looks at Prim and sighs because she's safe at least for another year.

* * *

It's not over yet.

She sighs as the boys' slips of paper are ruffled; she swears the wind carries the sound of the paper all the way to her ears. She looks for Gale with the corner of her eyes; doesn't dare to fully look his way in case she might curse his luck somehow. Destiny was already kind to her today; what if she already owes it too much and Gale's life ends up her debt.

She stares at the sun until she can't see anymore; rough sunlight falling on her face furiously. She feels the collective sigh of the crowd, senses how the oxygen is sucked around her; draws in a breath herself hoping she doesn't know the name that's going to be read; hoping she doesn't know the boy's body as an extension of herself.

When the name is read, she sighs. She finally dares to look at Gale in the eyes, half smile perched upon his lips; impossible not to smile in response.

But she casts a stare at the boy at the platform, holding Madge's hand at Effie's request, and she blames the gods and feels ungrateful because she _did_ know the name.

Every debt must be paid somehow; especially in this world where young lives are the currency the government accepts. She figures Peeta Mellark's life as payment is an unkindness, remembers an episode she can't forget no matter how much time beats at her door.

She's certain he remembers too; his eyes lock on hers before turning around; with Effie leading him past doors the sun blocks from her view.

* * *

The crowd slowly dissipates, children cling to their parents; parents cling to their kids. Everything's done in a clipped way, trying to keep their joy concealed; whispering congratulations on going unscathed for another year.

She searches for Gale's silhouette, but he finds her first. His arms wrap around her; and her body unfolds in his. _We're okay_, she says and her voice is so childlike, so full of disbelief, a voice she'd allow only to him. She notices her arms were shaking only when they stop at the contact with the skin above his neck; and she dares a smile to the _I know_ his breath blows on her right cheek.

They disentangle themselves rhythmically; an ancient dance perfected as the years have passed: arms loosen around her waist; a foot takes a step back, fingers ghost over calloused palms for half a second longer than they should; lungs breathe, they exhale.

It's no surprise when both heads turn to the Justice Hall at the same time.

At unison their glee fades, the illusion of safety shatters and breaks; leaves sharp pieces on the floor. She can't think of a year when both tributes have been somewhat privileged; as privileged as you could get in District 12. The son of a baker, the Mayor's daughter; the odds playing against those who didn't need to play games of hunger; bargaining for scraps. She knows this year's reaping will unsettle the whole town, and she sees it in the way Gale's shoulders tense like the string of her bow while he stares at the structure; she feels it in the roaring whispers of the people walking by.

She feels it in the way her breathing catches remembering blue eyes on a rainy night.

_You should go say goodbye_, he says interrupting their gloom signaling to the building in an offhanded manner_._ She's confused for a moment; and it spreads across her face like wildfire; altering her composure, setting a familiar scowl upon her eyebrows. _She was your friend_, he continues and she catches herself remembering he doesn't know, has no way of knowing why a blonde boy, a slap and burned bread creep upon her conscience; that he means she should say goodbye to Madge, send her to her death with more than the encounter with the strawberries earlier that day_._ She sighs and nods her assent, relaxing the muscles on her face a little.

She tries, but she can't shake the thought it's her debt the baker's son's sacrifice will pay.

* * *

She goes to Madge's chamber first.

She turns the handle on the door; and she sees Madge by the window, staring at the sun outside. She regrets going in the second the lock falls into place, but she walks up to her noiselessly anyway; tries to convince herself Madge would've done the same had the roles been reversed.

She feels a rush of relief when she sees Madge's face and notices she's not weepy, or teary; just tapping her fingers in the wood with her right hand; clutching something in the pocket of her dress with the other.

She takes a seat in one of the velvety chairs near the window; passes her hand through the fabric back and forth; back and forth; trying to find words to say to this girl that has coexisted with her in silence for God knows how long. The need for words soon vanishes, Madge turns around and her voice acquires a slight manic need as she speaks _could you put this on me, please?_

Madge presses a golden pin to her hand, clutches at it like a sick person in agony bites a stick when her mother has nothing useful to give for the pain. She looks at the pin momentarily, stares at the bird taking flight through an arrow; thinks of how much money this pin would be worth in bread, cheese, meat and medicine. She attaches the pin to her dress anyway, the light dances off it contrasting with the white dress she chose to wear.

_My mother would like it on me_, Madge speaks almost inaudibly, voice breaking slightly; and she vaguely remembers the Mayor's wife; only knows she's sicker more times than she's healthy, and she pities Madge for reasons that have little to do with her death in the weeks to pass.

She has never been good with words, and their dynamic was never based on them either, so she surprises herself when she hugs her friend goodbye and leaves without another glance before she has a chance to break at all.

* * *

She runs down the hall and searches for fresh air in the inside garden of the Justice Hall. She inhales; then vomits on top of the gardenias. It's the first year the reaping of tributes has hit close to home like this, so she retches and heaves just one time, collects herself and walks back in again.

She likes her debts paid, to give her businesses closure.

Her faces closes off; one tribute down, one more to go.

* * *

She marches determinedly into the room and only stops when his astonishment almost knocks a lamp over the marble floor. He catches the porcelain in his hands swiftly in a display of quick reflexes she thinks would come in handy in the forest; submerged inside some woods. She furrows her eyebrows deeply, thinking of arenas and if maybe catching things will be useful once he's out there on his own.

He sets the lamp aside and she looks at him then, _really_ looks at things about him as if searching for a treasure without an accurate map. She gazes upon his shoulders; sees the contours of his neck, the slope the muscle makes before it bends with his clavicle. She navigates his arms and sees the thickness of the veins protruding on them and she mentally compares them to Gale's. Where Gale's body is slender and lean, Peeta's body is built, solid and strong, product of wrestling and hard work carrying things at his father's place.

She dares a quick glance down to his legs; tries to assess their performance, when her concentration is interrupted _Why are you here?_

_You helped me once,_ the statement is supposed to be kind, convey how much he helped, but instead the words come out choppy; bitten and sounding like an accusation more than anything else.

He quirks his head and his eyelashes vanish in the light, his hair is so blonde it looks like gold and luxuries that do not help save lives, do not bring food to the table no matter how much you will them to try.

_If I hadn't, you would've died._ He offers the sentence as a defense, but there's a gentle resignation in his voice, barely audible, and she feels the notes lodge inside her, fears for the lamb going to the slaughter. Mostly, she can't believe she won't settle the score; that he will die leaving red numbers written in blood on her checking account.

She remembers the hunger, the freezing cold and thinks of the sound of the rain; shudders like it's now and not more than five years since. She thinks about dandelions and plants and survival and the will to fight, the sheer impulse to _live_, and wishes she could ignite something inside him, make him collect what he's owed. She looks at her hands but they're empty, just like that girl 6 years ago she's got nothing but means to her own ends.

But she's not eleven. She's the same fatherless girl from the Seam; but she can take care of herself, doesn't need the pity or the alms a poor district has to give. She's not eleven and she's not hungry or cold or dying; but _he_ is, even if he's not shaking, or blue at the lips.

She decides it then, Peeta Mellark will come back, and the score will be set.

_Listen_, she mouths with urgency, tries to pick the words she'll say before men in white take her out of the room. _You came in second in the wrestling championship our school had last year. _His eyes narrow, she doesn't stop. _You have broad shoulders, and you're strong, which means you have a chance in hand to hand combat._

_Katniss – _he starts to shake his head, she can see the resolve to die in his eyes, recognizes it because it's what was reflected in his own eyes before he saved her from an icy hell.

She ignores her name upon his tongue, raises her voice almost to a yell, _You have a way with words. I've seen you deal with clients at the bakery, and you're kind. Use that._

_I have no chance of coming back_, he yells above her voice, water in his eyes for reasons she attributes to fear because if not, then she doesn't understand.

She looks deep into his eyes, puts both hands on both sides of him and squeezes for good measure, imprinting her next words on him.

_Yes, you do. Just try._

He looks at her palms on both his arms, and she slides one to his fingers, brings his open hand to her lips.

She closes her eyes, doesn't open them until the Peacekeepers finish taking her outside and looks right at the sun instead.

* * *

She goes straight to the meadow afterwards; plucks a single dandelion from the ground and blows on it, watches as the seeds scatter and blend with the wind.

Miles from her, when the seeds settle into the ground they grow as weeds of hope for her, but mostly just for him.

* * *

_there are more chapters that are going to be uploaded within the following days. _

_review!_


	2. 002

**002.**

That night she dreams she's in the woods; bow in hand, poised to shoot. The wind rustles the leaves; there's the echo of a stream; but otherwise everything is still.

She keeps still, blending with the scenery; becoming one with nature looking for her target, trying to find the game she's aiming at; but after a few seconds she realizes there's no beating heart in here other than hers.

She sees both Peeta and Madge's bodies on the floor; eyes closed like they are sleeping, hair spread across the foliage like the halo of those angels no one can afford to think exist anymore. She thinks of going to them, shaking them awake; ask what they are doing lying in the grass, won't Madge's dress get dirty because, after all she's wearing white; but there are odd angles to their legs and a stiffness to their spines; an unnatural tangle at their clasped hands full of dirt and ash.

She understands it way too slowly and hates herself for it because it actually freezes up her veins. She sees the blood pooling underneath them, hesitantly makes out the stained mess in Peeta's chest and feels her stomach drop because what use did it have to think his end would be different. The games are designed to end lives; not grant desires wished on dandelions that would benefit only her selfish heart.

The trail of blood coming out of them advances to her feet, accusing her, condemning her, finding her guilty, executing her without defense. She takes a step back, one to the left, one to the right, but it doesn't matter where she runs to she can't outrun the dead, and when the red gnaws at her feet she screams, and the mockingjays begin to sing.

The rest of the night is cold; she doesn't close her eyes after the nightmare is gone.

* * *

She watches. For the first time, she _really_ watches.

She watches the recaps of every reaping; wills herself to measure other tributes in scales of how difficult a challenge they would present for the boy that once saved her life.

She watches their_ own_ reaping, Madge's hair sticking to her lips with the sudden breeze, wonders why her mother's lips turn to a tight line when her name is called, why Peeta's mother doesn't weep when her son comes up the stage. She watches, and tries to find that moment when their eyes met; and looks for herself in the crowd.

She watches as he is set on fire at the tribute parade; feels a knot in her throat pushing its way out before she understands it doesn't consume him; sees him wave, sees him smile, sees the masses at his feet, and she remembers how to breathe.

She watches for their rankings, blesses the 8 he receives as a score, takes it as a promise, and wills it to be true.

_I am trying,_ she dreams of his voice, soft like morning dew; _I'm doing what you asked._

Mostly, she watches so she can look for signs in the way he carries himself to tell her she won't have to give the boy's body to the earth. The earth took her father, her mother's soul, and she won't allow it to also take away the only hope she has left.

She shudders when she thinks of this boy as hers.

* * *

They watch the interviews together.

Hazelle speaks with her mother in hushed whispers. Prim plays with Posy in her lap as the boys tease them; Katniss and Gale sit side by side.

She sees the shake in her mother's head before the transmission begins, notices the way Hazelle touches her elbow and wonders the reason for their pain. She thinks it's selfish, what right do they have to wallow when their kids are safe within arm's reach, and others are out there, paraded around and made likable only to watch them fall to their deaths. She thinks it and narrows her eyes, but then she feels guilty, she remembers both their mothers have been visiting the Mayor's house a lot these days, probably trying to calm a grieving mother who's always been ill. She remembers she and Gale used to be the ones who walked to the Mayor's door trading berries for their pain and suddenly she has lost all will to judge.

Madge comes out first, dressed in a light blue dress, hair pulled up in a pretentious knot, crimson red upon her lips. She sits beside Caesar Flickerman in one swift ladylike motion, there's not a doubt in the whole of Panem that this girl is poised, has learned etiquette for years. Katniss senses through the screen how the people gaze at her beauty, girls ogling wanting to be her, boys shuddering because they will never have her. She feels Gale tense at her side, seam grey eyes enthralled by the screen, and she can't shake the pang of _something_ that makes her insides fire up.

_Madge Undersee!_, Caesar exclaims after he shakes her hand and guides her to her chair, _you have caused quite the commotion since you came here._

Madge smiles. It's not a coy smile, it's a smile full of pearly white teeth, so pleasant looking with a hint of something more Katniss can't quite grasp. She fears it, she doesn't understand why, doesn't think she can.

_I hope that's not a bad thing,_ she blushes, looks a little at her hands, directs her eyes at Caesar, and he laughs in earnest giving way for the audience to laugh back. The blue-haired man proceeds to compliment her on her score for training, and Katniss can't believe she let that 9 slip by; the number rises like a threat all the way up her spine and gets stuck like pressing weight upon her shoulders.

But she's your friend, something inside her seems to say, but it's dulled by acts of kindness that need to be repaid.

_So Madge, what was it like at the tribute parade? When you came out of that chariot wearing fire, my heart just about stopped._

It takes her a second to understand what he means, but when she does, the wheels in Katniss' head begin to roll like avalanches and she remembers that _of course_ Peeta wasn't set on fire alone.

Madge was on fire too.

Madge laughs again, looks toward her side for a second, and Katniss thinks there's a slight nod to somewhere in particular before she continues. _That's funny. My heart and Peeta's almost did too._

There's a current zapping through her that runs from toes to head, she's certain Gale feels it, and he's just as confused as her. She looks at Gale and Gale looks back, and their faces mirror each other's confusion as all sounds fall away. Interviews are made to make the tribute shine, get sponsors, have a chance. Tributes are rivals who try to save their own skins; there are no teams, there are no friends, what is she doing bringing up Peeta's name?

It takes the whole of Panem on stride. There are _'ooh_s' and _'aahs'_ in the audience at the sound of an unspoken rule being bent, but Caesar does what he does best and Katniss is grateful for the first time that he has interviewed dying children for decades.

_For those who don't know, Peeta is the tribute boy from District 12,_ his words are for the crowd and she edges closer to the screen; squeezes the wood of the chair she's sitting in. _I assume you know him from back home?_ _Goodness, what am I saying? Of course you do! You're the Mayor's Daughter._

Caesar then opens his hands gesturing to her like she's a celebrity and the crowd begins to clap, Peeta's mention completely forgotten for now. Katniss breathes one drawn out sigh of relief, but there's a newfound respect for Madge in the audience, now that they have this bit of information that signals her out from the malnourished and wild children District 12 has been known to offer for years. There's a twinkle of a familiar gold pin strapped to Madge's dress that makes her lips look drenched in blood, and she sees her friend with brand new eyes; notices how even Prim is hypnotized at the other side of the room.

_Yes, Caesar, that I am. _She straightens her shoulders, and swallows hard.

_So, what do you think will be the best skill a mayor's daughter will possess in this year's arena?_

Madge edges closer to her chair and leans a bit to Caesar's ear with mocked secrecy. _I've got a very good aim._

She winks, and the buzzer sounds. Gale's face lightens up beside her and she thinks she hears Prim hope Madge wins this year, but she can't look away. Madge has never been so charming, so angelic; so pretty.

And so, so very deadly.

* * *

They call his name. He comes up the stage, she prays to a half deaf god like once before, but this time the prayer's changed. _Just try. Just try. Just try. Just try._

But as she watches that familiar blonde boy whose voice has constantly crowded her dreams flashing the right smile and making everyone laugh, it becomes evident for everyone that he is not trying. He is _effortlessly_ winning a country's heart.

She looks at his face, memorizes his features. She sees the way he talks with his hands, half doubling his knuckles; never opening quite his palm. She wonders if that's one of the habits of baking; for his hands to be wired to knead bread; give shape, to mold.

She thinks about his hands molding up the world; what kind of world would that be.

But she knows. She knows it's a matter of seconds before Madge's stunt somehow ends up being mentioned, and she swallows thickly before he squares his shoulders and Caesar finishes sniffing the scent of roses Peeta apparently has as cologne.

_Peeta, so Madge mentioned your heart nearly stopped at the tribute parade. _He lets the sentences hang; raises his eyebrows at the mention of Madge's name.

_Well, can you blame me?_ Peeta responds without hesitation, _I thought I was going to burn to death._

The audience laughs, the people in her own house seem to relax into his allure, but she doesn't make a sound.

When the laughter dies down, Caesar's tone is teasing, but the subtext underneath it demands a serious answer and before he's said anything, Katniss knows the words foaming at his mouth, and her stomach knots.

_Was Madge your girlfriend, back home?_

It's so direct, and so on point, she thinks of the arrows she shoots and how they never miss their mark. But arrows are arrows, and words are not words; not when lives are at stake, and she doesn't understand why the response is not coming from Peeta's mouth or why he is taking a deep breath and considering the answer to the question as if hesitation has taken over his brain.

_No, no,_ his words are steeled, so sure, _we are just best friends._

She knows that is not true. She's the closest thing Madge has to a friend, and she would've noticed if Peeta Mellark had started hanging out with them for the past months. She knows it's not true and yet she finds herself questioning her beliefs because he's just so sure, and it's so believable; and who would dare to question that good-natured face.

He goes on about how they've been friends from the cradle, how his father and her mother ran neighbor shops, of Sundays spent playing hide and seek, eating frosting from the bakery when no one was around and how they've been told they look like siblings because of their striking blonde locks.

She allows herself to be confused for a second, but then everything clicks. She searches in her mind for him and she gets pieces. Pieces of him scattered through her memory; events that were too trivial to hold any other significance than the fact that her savior was in them. She flashes to the nod of his head when a client gives him a hard time, the scowl he sets when he lets his big brother beat him in a game of chess; and then she understands.

_Why are they lying?_ Prim asks, and suddenly it's just so evident that she's a child, a child who can't grasp the lengths one has to go to survive, how you face your demons and your fears and suddenly lying through gritted teeth and breaking the law jumping through a fence look like the same thing.

_To get the people's sympathies. _It's Gale who answers and his voice is so agape.

Surely everyone's heart is warming up to the best friends of District 12 and she starts biting her lip. She can't decide if this is the best or the worst idea the Games have ever seen.

_But surely, there's a girl back home, _Caesar continues and she's brought back from her daze.

It's the first time in the last minutes Peeta hasn't looked self-possessed. There's some hesitation in his eyes but he shakes his head smiling still, his eyes downcast on the floor.

_Peeta, come on. _Caesar coaxes, and addresses the crowd. _All these ladies want to know if a handsome man like you is spoken for. _

The crowd goes wild, there's cat calling, and screams, and Peeta makes a gesture with his hand for the audience to quiet down. It reminds her of a story of a man who calmed storms, wielded lightning with his voice.

_There is a girl back home. _He breathes the words out. _But she doesn't know how I feel, and I'm not sure what she feels about me. _

_What's her name?_ Caesar starts.

For a boy who has spent so much time giving all of them the show they wanted he seems to want to protect what's in his mind. Katniss can relate to that. After all, it's what she would do with him if she had the chance. But then her hand is violently gripping Gale's and the whole room's eyes are on her face, and there's a high pitched sound threatening to rasp her throat because this is a different reaping, to play a different game.

_Katniss Everdeen,_ he says, and she's set on fire with his flames, burning but not consuming and she continues screaming that animalistic shriek in the walls of her skull but it's as if her body forgets how to make a sound.

* * *

She understands it in a dream. She asked him to try, and this is it.

This is his strategy. This is his act. He has to lie, because she asked. He has to lie; and the lies are her fault, so she'll lie with him because she asked him to give it his all.

It's the least she can do. At least that's credit to put to her tab.

This boy is going to win these Games because she will make the world believe his words, whatever it takes. She will bend the Sun and change its course if he were to say it rises from the West rather than the East.

* * *

_review!_


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